New Book Coming Soon!

At the risk of sounding vain, I’d like to put in one more plug for my upcoming collection of poems entitled The Wrenching of the Hip that Precedes the Blessing from the publisher Wipf and Stock. I sent the book out to a few beta-readers, and here’s what they had to say:

In this collection, Daniel Jones is a master at word-play, in poems such as “Becoming Apparent” and “Scenes from the Hoosier Countryside,” and “Ars Poetica (in Sapphics).”  Then, there are the emotional gut punches, such as “Veering,” and “The Second Greatest Commandment.” More than that, this poet is clever as hell with a punchline to make you think in almost every poem. These poems are not work for the reader, they are a rich dessert to savor and roll around the tongue. Each work leaves a sense of satisfaction and the “Oh, yes!” that great poems conjure.

–Julia Gordon-Bramer, author of Fixed Stars Govern a Life: Decoding Sylvia Plath and the Decoding Sylvia Plath series.

The Wrenching of the Hip that Precedes the Blessing is both heartfelt and relatable as a poetry collection. Jones weaves together words that will inspire you while marveling at their clever combinations and metaphors. This deeply personal collection is one that will appeal to a wide spectrum of poetry enthusiasts. From the wordplay and imagery in “Scenes from the Hoosier Countryside” to the passion and aguish and “The Wolves Who Refuse to Lie Down with the Lamb,” there’s something for everyone in this collection.

-Tiffany Renee Harmon, Author of Suburban Secrets and Editor-in-Chief of Ephemeral Elegies (https://ephemeralelegies.com/)

The new collection will be out this Fall! Keep your eyes on this page for more updates.

Dylan Quincy is a Middle West Icon

(by Daniel R. Jones)

i.

When I first met Dylan Quincy, he had ice in his veins,
in the literal and proverbial sense.

On his one arm, he had a punk-y chick with a blunt-cut,
clad in black, lacquered nails and Doc Marten boots.
He held her like a grudge.

On his other arm, he had track marks.

Dylan told me to not postulate on the dissolution of ego, because the ego loved such talk.

He talked of transcendence, as if
car notes and
dirty dishes and
unread notifications:
the ballast bags of everyday life
didn’t exist.

Dylan wanted to— like Jesus—feel the power go out from him.
But given that—unlike Jesus—he cared very little who touched him.

If I relaxed my gaze, I’d get a bit cock-eyed
and his philosophy came into focus;
like some human-shaped magic eye puzzle.

His life was a burnt offering. So what if it was a slow burn?

ii. 

Without a lung full of flower, Dylan’s thoughts bumped up against one another like railway cars,
the link
              and pin coupler never quite
      aligning.

He couldn’t connect one to the other in a way that formed a coherent
                                                                     train
                                                                     of
                                                                   thought.

Dylan liked that the DSM-5 calls it a ‘hypomanic episode.’ 

“Because it really does feel like an episode of some action thriller,” he’d say.

“The boring parts of life all stripped away;
my every action imbued with a sense of meaning,
distilled seven times over;
the minutiae of everyday life
left on the cutting room floor.

Life in mania is the way it’s meant to be seen.
No fluff.
The Director’s Cut.”

He ended his homily with “Such a life is deeply satisfying.”

That lie the lone tarnish on his otherwise silver tongue.



iii.

Dylan Quincy once told me a koan disguised as joke:

Jim Morrison had a spray bottle of LSD-25 in one hand and a rag in the other. He was spritzing the acid on a sliding glass door, wiping it down every few sprays. Aldous Huxley happened to be passing by, and he asked Jim what he was up to.

“I’m cleaning the Doors of Perception,” he answered.

The Lizard King finished his chore. The door was perfectly clean; there were no streak marks at all. In fact, it was so transparent that you couldn’t tell the door was there at all. Just then, William Blake passed the two, and ran headlong into the glass door, bumping his nose and injuring himself in the process.

He cursed at Jim Morrison. 

“Why are you angry?” Morrison retorted, “I was cleansing the Doors of Perception, that I might see the infinite.”

“Perhaps you should’ve left a streak mark,” Huxley responded. “That way, you never forget you’re inside.”

I told Dylan I didn’t understand.

“Then you do!” he said. “If you don’t get it, you understand it perfectly. Glad to see you know you’re inside.”

iiii.

Still, there were times when it seemed he almost broke through.

Such as Golden Hour on that lush spring evening,
when Dylan and I hoofed it fourteen blocks to get to his favorite public park.

At the first scent of lilac, we remembered we were eternal.

He had me on his wavelength when he turned and said, like a benediction:

“In April, every loamy, dew-drenched field is holy ground. Oh, God, forgive us the times we neglect to take our sandals off.”

His life was a drink offering. So what if it was a slow leak?


iiiii.

What called him up today, so many years after his memory finally faded?
Perhaps it’s just survivor’s guilt in our ceaseless spiritual war.

Not so hard to sell a soul that’s never been used.

When I last saw Dylan, he had one shot
                                       liquor bottles strewn about his feet
like discarded cups of communion.

An eyeless Samson, slumped
against what wasn’t
a load-bearing
pillar.

Didn’t anyone tell you Dylan? 

Too much Keurouac is like vinegar to your soul.

When you get the message, you hang up the phone.

You can lose the title of “Seeker.”

It happens when you’d rather seek than find.

When you fall in love with the questions,
to the detriment of the answers.

No burnt offering,
no drink offering,
just the smoldering embers of
“the fire in your belly.”

From rotgut,
not from zeal.

The Wolves are Inadmissible who refuse to lie down with the lamb (poem)

(by Daniel R. Jones)

We’re a peculiar people; out of context,
and those are two separate clauses.
But a faction of the dead can’t long for heaven 
if the swords must be beaten to plowshares 
and spears to pruning hooks.

The Cherubim, fierce and fey with 
hot steel flickering side to side
stand guard at the gates of Paradise, saying:
“The wolves are inadmissible
who refuse to lie down with the Lamb.”

But the goats on the left
follow a star that doesn’t lead to Bethlehem.
“No matter,” they say. 
“It’s heaven enough to prove the atheists wrong.”
The goats proceed to damnation.

Meanwhile, Jesus took bread, saying
“Take, eat; this is my body.”
And his body, blessed and broken
was plenty sufficient for the multitude.
How is it that ye do not understand?

Beyond the Balustrade (Poem)

[by Daniel R. Jones]

 (After John 8:2-11.)

NO FOREIGNER
IS TO GO BEYOND THE BALUSTRADE
AND THE PLAZA OF THE TEMPLE ZONE
WHOEVER IS CAUGHT DOING SO
WILL HAVE HIMSELF TO BLAME
FOR HIS DEATH
WHICH WILL FOLLOW.
-The Warning Inscription in the Jerusalem Temple

Darker, more substantive
against a backdrop of
pastel, Judean girls:
my mistress strode
all smoke and sparks
in the marketplace.

I gave the devil his due,
offered, even, some gratuity;
steeling myself against
the thought of her open
mouth kissing my
throat’s blood vessels open, 

As I wince through
Forgive me, Father,
for I have sinned,
still sin, in truth,
intend on
right on sinning.

Her husband’s not at home,
but he’s a good man.
Yeah, well, in Eden
Eve was enticed.
Desire isn’t always sprung
for lack of something.

Her body was a temple,
and she let me in.
There, beyond the balustrade
they found me.
Dragged her through the complex
while I fled on foot.

Some mornings I try to catch her
gaze in the city square
as she haggles the price
of a fish or purchases a basket;
her movements are lighter,
more fluid than they were before.

She left her life of sin,
the day she wasn’t stoned.
Where are your accusers?
Meanwhile, townspeople prattle
on about how I should’ve stood
beside her. It was a stroke of luck

when I fled with my life in my hands,
or so they say. But she
has faced the Arbitrator
and been absolved.
And I have yet
to face Him.

Featured Artist- Nanci Stoeffler

While the purpose of this blog is, in part, to meet up with like-minded artists who follow the teachings of Jesus, it still came as a surprise when I was able to do just that last week: I had the utterly unique and unprecedented experience of meeting up with someone who I met through this website!

The artist in question is Nanci Stoeffler. We first connected up on WordPress due to our affinity for good art that glorifies God. As we continued to chat, we recognized that we lived in the same vicinity, and agreed to grab coffee together to chat about the confluence of art and ministry.

Nanci is an incredibly talented artist who works with a variety of medium, including painting, writing, pendants, and more. While her expressionistic paintings are breathtaking and profound, what really struck me about Nanci is her spirit. 

As I sipped my Flat White at a local coffee shop, I listened to Nanci talk and I was enamored by the scope of her creative vision. Her passion (both for art, and for the Lord) is evident at an instant, and her Spirit-led approach to the artist’s life practically explodes off the canvases she paints.
Her vibrant expressionist paintings utilize a distinct technique. Nanci describes her discovery of this technique as “finding a gusher,” after searching for creative oil her whole life.

The Lord has laid upon Nanci’s heart the desire to help other Christ-following Creatives find their place, both in vocation and in community. In so doing, it’s her desire to proclaim the gospel and advance the Kingdom of God.

Part of this passion wells up from Nanci’s personal experience. The Lord helped her to extinguish two lies from the enemy: 1.) that she is not an artist, and 2.) that art doesn’t matter to God.

I am excited about potentially partnering with Nanci on her mission to share the gospel and further build up a community of artists in the future. Stay tuned for that possibility!

In the meantime, however, Nanci’s art can speak for itself. Please visit her website and social media pages! In viewing her art, I believe you’ll feel her sense of urgency to co-Create with the One who crafted our universe.

https://www.stoefflerartstudio.com/
https://www.facebook.com/StoefflerArtStudio/
https://www.instagram.com/stoefflerartstudio/
https://stoefflerartstudio.wordpress.com/

Inspiration from Hafiz: A Hole in a Flute

Sometime, Christ-honoring poetry can come from unexpected places. Consider, for instance, “A Hole in a Flute” by Hafiz, a Sufi poet from the 1300s:

A Hole in a Flute

I am a hole in a flute
that the Christ’s breath moves through.
Listen to this music.

I am the concert from the mouth of every creature
singing with the myriad chorus.

I am a hole in a flute
that the Christ’s breath moves through
Listen to this music.


 

Though it cannot be argued that Hafiz was a disciple of Christ, this poem speaks vividly of the Lord’s enlivening πνεῦμα (Greek “pneuma”–breath, or spirit.) The poem calls to mind the words of John the Baptist, when he said “He must become greater, I must become less.”

If we study closely, we can see clear evidence of the Image of God being reflected in His creation, whether the author of said words had a full understanding of Christ’s role in eternity or not.